by Sylvia Frost
Light ripples in starbursts beneath my closed eyelids as I take his mouth with mine. His lips are soft, but limp, and the inside of his mouth is drier than I remember. My body hums with recognition all the same. This, my cells seem to murmur, is home. Don’t lose your home again.
Something crystallizes inside of me the moment I break the kiss. Funny, Orion was worried that he failed me, but the truth is that I failed him. If I had been more perceptive about Lola, or had taken Stefania’s ramblings about blood bindings more seriously, I could’ve stopped this.
And now I will.
I know how, too. The last time, the dream ended not when we kissed or even when we had sex, but after Orion told me about the scars on his neck. About his father. I can’t just feel for Orion; I have to know him. I have to look at him as he really is. To care for the man and the monster in one.
“I need to know where we are, Orion,” I say firmly. “Why we’re here.”
Orion starts to murmur a reply, but before I can unravel the meaning, a gash of black arcs through my peripheral vision. Keeping my hand on his body, I twist to see if I can identify the source of the movement.
It’s the shadow. It’s standing between two trees a few yards to our right, and is now distinct enough that I can tell what it is. A man. He looks like Orion. Or Orion’s much older, thinner brother, maybe. The stranger’s cheekbones are too sharp and the shadows beneath his eyes too deep. More than that, they’re all wrong. It’s as if he’s lit from underneath, even though the white sun is burning bright above us. The longer I stare at him, the weaker the similarities between him and my mate seem.
Yes, the stranger’s eyes flicker with the same enchanted light as Orion’s. But his are a stale, predatory yellow. When Orion looks at me, he always makes me feel as if he’s touching my soul, but with this man it’s as if he’s sucking it out. I need to turn away, to tend to Orion, who is barely alive sitting next to me, but I can’t.
A lopsided smirk slithers across the stranger’s lips.
I wait for him to say something, anything, to me, but he doesn’t. He just stares hungrily. The silence among the three of us fills my lungs with cotton until I want to scream just to break it. It’s then that I realize why the quiet is so absolute.
Orion’s stopped breathing.
I whirl back to him. His eyes are closed. His breathing is so soft that steam is no longer condensing outside his nostrils or mouth. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
“You should never have been his…”
My attention is pulled away from Orion toward the stranger. But when I look up to ask him what he means and who he is, I find only snow broken by the dark stripes of trees.
I have bigger concerns than the apparition of some cryptic old man. I press my ear to Orion’s chest, searching out a heartbeat, but this time it’s not just quiet. It’s gone. Terror emerges through my numbness.
I can’t shake Orion. I try, but he barely moves. His shoulders are so broad that it stretches my arms to grasp each of them. He’s heavier than he looks, too, the result of all that muscle and no fat.
“Please wake up, Orion. You have to tell me where we are.”
Not even the wind answers.
I close my eyes, trying to focus. The only way out of this is to know Orion. So what do I know?
He’s a werewolf. His father kept him imprisoned when he was younger, and tortured him with pain to keep him from going insane from the cramped quarters. Which makes no sense. We shouldn’t even be here. Orion told me his father never let him go into the forest because he was worried the drones would find him.
That’s it.
With the dawning of my epiphany I search the trees for the man again. He must be Orion’s father. That’s why he was chasing us.
I stroke Orion’s face with a trembling hand. “Is that what happened? You escaped? And he came after you?” My breath stills in my chest as I wait for the world to unravel around me at my revelation.
But nothing happens.
“Fuck!” I scream. The dream is too weak to summon an echo. Despair settles into my bones. Even if I do guess right, how will I know? If I guess right, the dream will end—and if I don’t and Orion dies, the dream will end then, too.
I press my body against his, feeling the firmness of his flesh against mine. Will this be the last time I feel it? Will the last words he ever says be that the pain doesn’t matter, because I haven’t left?
My breath catches and stops. A revelation tickles the back of my mind.
I haven’t left.
The pain doesn’t matter.
He thought I would leave. Just like him.
Oh.
Then, I know. I’m not sure how I know, but I do. Orion didn’t escape from his father.
He was abandoned.
For some reason, after torturing him under the guise of keeping him safe, his father gave up even that pretense and left Orion in this forest to die. But if the shadow was Orion’s father, and Orion’s father abandoned him, then why did the shadow return?
Why did it follow me?
Whatever questions I have left are burned away by the tears tracking down my cheeks. Orion is as much an orphan as I am, but his parents weren’t murdered; they chose to leave. His mother died. His father remained alive without his weremate and went mad from it. Abused his son and then left and certainly died himself soon after.
I’ve always felt a similarity to Orion. I thought it was a part of the bond. But what if it isn’t? What if it’s because of our pasts? We both were so afraid. Me of losing someone again, him of being lost. And now both of our fears have come true.
“I-I have you, Orion.” I press a kiss to his forehead and almost draw back in shock. Not because it’s cold, but because it’s warm. “I’m not going anywhere.”
When I raise my head to take in the forest I notice that there’s not a forest around us at all. The sky is melting. The trees are blurred out and grainy, like someone has tried to remove them with the scrubbed-down eraser of a bad pencil.
My whole body feels numb, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve finally won and Orion is safe, or because I’ve lost.
As the world falls down around me, the words of the stranger who must’ve been Orion’s father ring in my ears. “You should never have been his.”
I don’t know why he said them, but I know that even though this may be my last moment with Orion, they don’t matter.
I am his. Orion’s.
And he is mine.
No matter what happens next. No matter if I lose him.
No matter if I already have.
3
There is only one thing a hunter hates more than a werebeast: a human who helps a werebeast.
Beasts, Blood & Bonds: A History of Werebeasts and Their Mates
By Dr. Nina M. Strike
It’s the smell that brings me to full consciousness. Chemical, astringent and familiar. Silver nitrate. It burns at my nostrils and at the corners of my eyes, but I don’t close them. The stinging is the only thing that forces away the foggy need for sleep.
The second thing I register is music. A masculine croon distorted by old recording equipment wafts over the slow strumming of an acoustic guitar. Elvis. And, irony of ironies, the song is “Love Me Tender.”
Of all the things Lola lied about, I guess her musical taste wasn’t one of them.
I hate Elvis, but my heart swells with the music anyway. Orion. I press my mouth to the floor to smother my cries. My vision fills with something dark, and the stench of silver nitrate is cut by the scent of rubber. Two blinks later I discover I’ve got a faceful of a car floor mat.
On my third blink, the car jolts forward, and my skull slams into the front seat. The collision is more startling than painful, but I’m sure it will hurt later. I try wiggling my fingers and toes and find that I can. But my hands and feet are tied and my tongue lacks the dexterity to form words. My breaths are too slow and shallow to give me the necessary power to use my werecall. My mouth is duct
-taped shut.
Fuck.
At least I’m clothed. Jeans and a t-shirt, the same as in the dream. I get this more from the feel of the fabric than from a careful perusal. I squirm as I realize that this means someone must’ve dressed me. Which means someone must have had time to dress me. That doesn’t make Orion’s odds for survival good. If he was conscious, he wouldn’t have let Lola and Stefania get away, let alone with time to spare.
I close my eyes. The music grows stronger without my other senses to block it out, and I give up trying to stop the sob. Please turn it off. Please.
Thankfully, I’m not the only one who loathes the King.
Stefania’s high voice breaks. “Shut that off.”
The music gives way to the distant rumblings of wheels on the highway. Face down, I can’t see who flicked the switch. It must be Lola, I guess. If that’s even her real name.
We hit another bump, and this time I’m thrust backward against the seat behind me. At least now I can see a little bit more of my surroundings.
I’m in what must be an SUV. Black, I bet. FBSI issue. There are two people in the front seat. A woman with familiar hair is driving. Lola. Stefania is sitting on the passenger side.
If I strain my neck for just a second I can catch a glimpse out the window. It’s almost dark. Early morning, I guess at first, then I realize that the shadows are too deep and the light too orange.
It’s not dawn.
It’s dusk.
I’ve lost an entire day.
I have less than 24 hours until they transfer Lawrence.
The terror is a blessing in disguise, as it sharpens my senses enough to force me to crane upward another inch. And this time I see more than a few blurs of lights.
Windmills.
Row after row of them stretch out as endless as the highway, whirring with mechanical efficiency in the drowsy twilight. The blinking red dots on their bodies are just barely visible. That unnerves me even more than the lost time, although it takes me a moment to realize why. It’s the direction. The last time I saw the windmills, I was driving with Orion back to Rochester after we went north to follow Lawrence’s kidnappers.
But if Lola is taking me to Washington D.C., back to the FBSI, she should be going south.
I don’t know why that freaks me out, but it does. Enough that I decide I have to get the duct tape off now, no matter what. I start by licking it, hoping I can wear down the glue that way.
“You faked Artemis’s death, didn’t you? As a Washington FBSI agent, one of the last remaining, you’d have the ability to do it.” Stefania taps her fingers on the dashboard in a frenetic rhythm, faster with every monotone accusation she presents to Lola.
“I assumed you knew the moment you called me,” Lola replies smoothly. “But, yes. I thought it would be the best way to keep her away from Agent North, since he was a part of the FBSI and had access to the records.”
My chest feels like it’s been scooped out, my heart, lungs and blood drained. Lola can’t have faked my death. Not to protect me.
“But according to our personnel files, he has no known connection to any werebeast resistance groups.” Stefania stops tapping, her manicured nails giving one final click of punctuation against the dashboard before falling to her lap.
“The files on the USB stick you decoded proved that bloodmarking must be done by the mate,” Lola says coolly. “And you saw the DNA. She’s bloodmarked.”
“The files said the bloodmarking must be done by the mate or another werebeast sharing—”
“If you don’t trust me,” Lola interjects, “then why are you still here?”
“I’m a scientist. I like to understand. So help me.” Stefania’s voice trembles. “You’ve been covering up Artemis’s existence for years. We didn’t have that data then.”
“I had a hunch.”
“So you committed fraud by tampering illegally with FBSI records. Going so far as to stage an entire crime scene, complete with a corpse.”
Lola says nothing.
My tongue pauses on the sticky edge of the tape as I tune out the rest of their bickering. Lola, or Agent Stromwell as I guess I should call her, thought Orion was involved in my bloodmarking and a member of some werebeast resistance group. Probably the same group Cooper’s boss is a part of. Which means she thought he killed my parents. But that’s impossible. He’s my mate. I’ve kissed him, heard him whisper my name, told him about my parents and cried as he held me.
I roll forward, my body weight landing on my wrists and my vision once again filling with the rubber mat. Lola must be accelerating, but she stays silent. The only sound is the crescendoing whine of the engine. How fast are we going?
“North was an agent of the FBSI. He deserved a trial, at least, even if he is guilty. Not murder,” says Stefania.
“I didn’t kill him.” The car’s rattling quiets and Lola’s voice falls to a whisper. “The bullet wasn’t silver.”
Her easy denial makes me angrier than if she admitted it outright. Fury chokes me, but I fight it back. Breathe, Artemis. Breathe. I need to figure out a way out of this duct tape. I redouble my efforts, gnashing at it with my teeth as I shift carefully back onto my side so I can see a little.
“You keep saying that, Stromwell.” Stefania’s voice has grown painfully tight now, like her jaw has knotted with her teeth. “But I know there’s something more going on here.”
I stop my assault on the duct tape, listening, waiting for Lola to explain.
She doesn’t. Instead, she glides the car lazily into the left lane and continues a slow but steady acceleration that makes my heart pound faster than if she had slammed on the brakes.
She tilts her head in Stefania’s direction. “Brender. I prefer to be called by my maiden name.”
“Stromwell.” Stefania’s hands move in her lap, fiddling with something I can’t see. “Did you know that when we stopped for gas about an hour back, I got in contact with the Washington Bureau?”
“Oh?”
“The cover-up of Artemis being alive? They knew nothing about it. You didn’t fake Artemis’s death to protect her from North, or from any other werebeast at our branch of the FBSI. As far as they know, North has nothing to do with the werebeasts in the south, the kidnappings or the bloodbindings.”
“A cover-up wouldn’t work very well if everyone knew about it.” ,” Lola says gently enough that I shiver.
“So you’re admitting that you did all of this on your own.” Stefania’s voice radiates righteous anger. “Without clearance of any kind from any level.”
“I appreciate you helping me locate North, but—” Lola gives a low, bitter laugh that’s over before it even really begins. “Stick to the tech.”
Suddenly, Stefania ducks, reaching for something underneath the seat, but just as she does Lola slams on the brakes. This time I don’t just hit the front seat, I wham into it hard enough that my bones rattle and blackness iridescent with strange, painful colors billows across my vision. When it clears I notice two things.
Where there once was an empty space between Lola and Stefania, now there’s a gun pointed straight at Stefania. Lola must have pulled it as she braked. And we’re moving again.
Oh god.
I hope for my sake that Lola drifted over to the right lane; otherwise we’re going what feels like 30 in a 70 mile an hour lane. But I hope for Stefania’s sake that Lola didn’t. Other than a car accident, I see no hope of Stefania getting out of this alive.
I redouble my efforts to undo the duct tape, gathering spit in my mouth to lubricate it and sucking at its gluey backside with my lips. Anything. But it’s too late. Lola is bringing the muzzle of her gun higher and higher until it’s level with Stefania’s forehead.
“I don’t want to kill you,” Lola says.
“Then you should’ve never asked for my help. I may be paranoid and prone to believing in a crazy theory or two, but as a scientist I’m also prone to checking them. The moment you shot North, I called
Cal.” To her credit Stefania doesn’t beg; she doesn’t even blink. “She’ll come to get us.” Up until Stefania mentions Cal she doesn’t sound guilty, not about any of it. But for some reason, the moment the subject of the tiger comes up, she seems remorseful.
It’s weird, but I don’t have time to dwell on it for long. Slick with saliva, my lips are almost completely free of the duct tape. But it won’t be soon enough. I watch as Lola tightens her finger on the trigger. But I’m the only one who’s watching her. Stefania has turned her head away.
Suddenly, I realize she’s looking out the window at something.
I scream, not caring that it gives me away, not caring that the duct tape turns it incoherent, because Lola is about to pull the trigger.
But she never manages to pull it completely. Before she can, my world explodes.
4
For most the world has changed much in the three hundred years since the founding fathers chartered a constitution and turned a handful of colonies into a country. But not for the Stromwells. Descended from some of the first puritanical settlers of the Mayflower, the Stromwells have remained as mired in myth and tradition as the monsters they claim to fight. Rules are strict and punishments brutal.
Adultery, homosexuality, and any lack of piety were all grounds for banishment from the family and all its benefits, including protection from their enemies the werebeasts. In fact, the most popular punishment wasn’t the noose, but to simply turn out a hunter into the woods, weaponless. If he returned, all of his sins were forgiven.
But no one ever returned.
Beasts, Blood & Bonds: A History of Werebeasts and Their Mates
By Dr. Nina M. Strike
I’m not good at keeping up with little good habits. I never floss. I always leave the dishes until the last minute, and I can never remember to make my bed. But one thing I always did growing up was buckle my seatbelt. It was just reflexive. I was never afraid of the consequences if I didn’t—other than maybe getting a ticket from a cop.